And why is me … me?
I lay on the bed in the afternoon. Even through the full blast of the air-con, the heat and humidity of a Friday afternoon in Saudi crept through the crevices of the walls. A whiff of mlookhiyyeh being prepared flitted through the corridors; my mother was downstairs making lunch. My sister was in her bedroom. I was in mine. Dad was having coffee in the living room.
It was maybe 20 years ago when I pondered that question.